


Countdown

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've got a young, hot… well, semi-hot… okay, you've got a young boyfriend now. You might actually want to find out what he wants to do. Venture out in the world, you know? Live a little?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community, for the prompt "New Years Eve"

**  
_~ Ten! ~_   
**

"—and after that I'll be going to New Hampshire for New Year's Eve with Mitch," Lucy says.

John blinks and shifts the receiver to his other ear, tries to bring his attention back to the conversation. He knows he should just be happy that Lucy is talking to him again, but after five minutes of grunting in what he hopes are the right places during her _All The Amazing Things Mom, Jack and I Did Over The Christmas Holidays_ monologue, it's a little difficult to get back on track.

"Is Mitch the mouth breather or the one who thinks he's an artist?"

"He works with metal," Lucy corrects primly.

John decides to hold his opinion on whether welding long steel pieces together in a zig zag shape is actually art until after she breaks up with the guy. And Lucy apparently doesn't want to risk hearing it either, because she immediately asks what he's got planned for the 31st.

John shrugs and leans back on the sofa. New Year's Eve ceased being something he actually paid attention to sometime in the '90's, right around the same time birthdays also stopped holding so much appeal. "Nothing really, honey. Got the night off, probably just have a couple beers, relax."

"Dad," Lucy says in that tone she clearly inherited from her mother. "You've got a young, hot… well, semi-hot… okay, you've got a young boyfriend now. You might actually want to find out what he wants to do. Venture out in the world, you know? Live a little?"

John considers this for a moment; thinks about the posters that line the walls in Matt's office down the hall, the ear-bleeding noise that occasionally blasts from his speakers. "I'm not going to a rave," he says shortly.

"He's not sixteen, Dad, jesus," Lucy says. She sniffs. "Even though most of the time he acts like he is."

"Lucy," he warns.

"Okay, okay," she says quickly. "Just ask him. His answer might surprise you."

 

 **  
_~ Nine! ~_   
**

"No fucking way he's going for that, dude," Warlock says.

"What?" Matt huffs out. "Why?"

"He's an old man, Farrell! He's practically got palsy or parkinsons or whatever the fuck."

"Whaaat?" Matt snorts out a laugh. "He's in better shape than you!"

"Look, just because he's got that brawny broad-shouldered thing happening—"

"And the steely-eyed stare," Matt puts in.

"I will grant you the steely-eyed stare, yes," Warlock says. "But that doesn't mean—"

"And his thighs, _christ_. They're like tree trunks or something, man, they're massive. And his arms." Matt leans toward the webcam, unconsciously licks his lips. "Sometimes, when he's got me pinned down and I'm—"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Warlock interrupts. "I don't want to hear about your kinky sex games, all right?"

"What, I have to listen to every excruciating detail of your date with Mary Ellen Marsters and you can't hear one thing about—"

"No, I can't," Warlock says shortly. "In fact, I'm out of here. And good luck with that New Year's Eve plan, man. You're gonna fucking need it."

 

 **  
_~ Eight! ~_   
**

When John realizes he's read the same paragraph three times and still hasn't retained a single iota of information, he flips the file folder closed and shoves it across his desk. He leans back in his battered chair, taps a rhythm on the armrest with his pen, and considers that maybe he's overthinking this thing.

"Hey, Joe," he calls over to the next desk, "what are you doing New Year's Eve?"

"You askin' me on a date, John?"

"You're not my type."

"That's good," Joe says, "because I wouldn't put out and then you'd just end up disappointed. Anyway, I plan to be sound asleep by eleven. The new year'll still be there when I wake up in the morning."

"Yeah," John says. "I guess so."

"The kid giving you a hard time about New Year's, McClane?" Connie asks.

"Nah," John says. "He hasn't said word one about it."

"Okay," Connie says. She props her hip on his desk, shakes out her curls. "So?"

"So nothing," John says. He drops the pen and reaches out to tug the file folder in front of him again, turns to the first page and stares at it pointedly until Connie sighs and shoves away from the desk.

Definitely overthinking it, John, he reflects as he stares unseeingly at the page. If you wanna know what the kid wants to do – or even if he wants to do anything at all – you just gotta ask him. God know Matt ain't shy about sharing his opinions. He makes up his mind to bring it up the following night.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to.

 

 **  
_~ Seven! ~_   
**

"No."

"What? Just like that, no?"

"That's right."

"Give me one good reason."

"I'm not twenty-five."

"What?" Matt puts down his razor to better scowl at John in the mirror. "How is that a reason?"

John shrugs. "Standing around in Times Square in the fucking cold on New Year's Eve is something twenty-five year olds do."

"No," Matt says immediately. "Invalid response. I hold that watching the ball drop in person transcends age, gender, race, sexuality, and religious affiliation. Give me one _good_ reason, McClane."

"Fine," John says shortly. He finishes the final swipe of his face, rinses out his own razor and places it back on the rack before grabbing a towel and turning to face Matt directly. "It's crowded. I don't like the cold and I'll fucking freeze in my jacket. I don't want to deal with the goddamn drunks. It's cordoned off and there's nowhere to take a piss." He swipes the towel over his face and gives himself a once-over before tossing it in Matt's direction. "Now hurry your ass up, we're gonna be late and I don't want to hear Lucy bitch about it all fucking night."

Matt catches the towel as John strides out the door, stares at it for a moment before letting it drop to the floor. "I said give me _one_ good reason," he mutters.

 

 **  
_~ Six! ~_   
**

John joined the NYPD to catch bad guys. Also because chicks like guys in uniform, and back in the day he really filled out the blues. But mostly to catch bad guys.

What he did not join the NYPD for was to fill out goddamn expense account forms in fucking triplicate.

"Where the FUCK is that… JOE! Do you have the paperwork on the Koslawski surveillance?"

"On your desk," Lambert calls back.

John shuffles his palms through the mound of files, reports, invoices and receipts currently littering his desktop before burying his head in his hands. He's considering just burning the lot of it – or maybe carting it home and letting Matt sort it out, the kid lives for that organization type shit – when his computer beeps to indicate an incoming email. By the time he's lifted his eyes to glance at the screen it's been joined by two more. He grits his teeth and reaches for the mouse. If it's Scalvino riding his ass – again – about the overdue expense forms he swears the computer is going out the window.

 

 _From: F4RR3LL@gmail.com  
To: John.McClane@nypd.org_

 _Re: Freezing in Times Square_

 _Lucy says you have a parka that you used to wear when you took her and Jack outside to play in the snow. She says that you'll say you donated it to Goodwill but really it's up in the attic._

 

John shakes his head. Goddamn Lucy. He remembers that thing, a white puffy monstrosity that he got on sale at some thrift shop in Brooklyn Heights. The thing weighed about fifty pounds and made him look like the Michelin Man. And how in the fuck did Lucy know it was still in the attic? Apparently he's going to be talking to his little girl about respecting her old man's privacy in his own goddamn house.

He taps his finger on the mouse before clicking through to the second message.

 

 _From: F4RR3LL@gmail.com  
To: John.McClane@nypd.org_

 _Lucy says it's huge and white and the first time Jack saw you in it he cried because he thought you were the abominable snow monster._

 

John's lips quirk at the memory. 'Cried' doesn't quite cover it. Jack had bawled like John had killed his puppy (or maybe kicked that damn train with the square wheel on the island of misfit toys.) His horrified wails had been enough to send Holly running frantically down the steps to the front yard, still in her slippers and holding an egg-spattered spatula, to pull Jack into her arms and glare at John when he just spread his puffy arms wide.

He probably shouldn't find that memory as amusing as he does. But what Jack doesn't know can't hurt him.

He hesitates only a second before clicking on the last message.

 

 _From: F4RR3LL@gmail.com  
To: John.McClane@nypd.org_

 _Lucy says there are photos._

 

Shit.

John has already clicked over to the 'write new message' function and is searching for Holly's email in his contact list when the bell indicating an incoming message rings again. He considers ignoring it, but finally decides that the anxiety might give him an ulcer. He stabs down on the mouse.

 

 _From: F4RR3LL@gmail.com  
To: John.McClane@nypd.org_

 _I already texted Holly. She's attaching the photos to an email as I type._

 

John wonders exactly how many times he'd have to bang his head on the desk before he actually passed out.

 

 **  
_~ Five! ~_   
**

"Well?" Lucy asks.

"I'm doomed to a night on the sofa watching Dick's Clark's Rockin' Eve," Matt moans.

"Fate worse than death," Lucy says. "What about the coat?"

"Ohhhh, he's got the coat. No way I am going to be seen anywhere in public with him wearing that coat."

Lucy sniffs. "Then just dump the ball drop, Farrell. Get him to take you out to dinner or something, then go home and let him fuck your brains out."

"So a typical Monday night, then."

"Wow, bordering on TMI there," Lucy says. "What's the big deal about going to Times Square anyway?"

Matt flops back on the bed, stares blankly at the popcorn ceiling and presses the cell phone a little closer to his ear. "I don't know. Doesn't everyone want to watch the ball drop live at least once in their lifetime?"

"I don't," Lucy says. "My dad doesn't."

"Yeah well, McClane's are weird," Matt mutters.

 

 **  
_~ Four! ~_   
**

The problem, John realizes, is that he's not giving the kid an alternative. He fixes that the following day.

Matt looks down at the tickets skeptically. "It says black tie," he says.

John gives the pasta sauce another quick swirl of the wooden spoon before leaning against the counter and crossing his arms at his chest. "You've got that suit you wore to the medal ceremony, that'll be fine."

"Yeah," Matt says tentatively. "It's just—"

"It's a big deal, kid," John says. He leaves the sauce to bubble and pushes off from the counter, wraps his arms around Matt's waist instead. "Pretty hard to get tickets at this late date; I had to pull in a few fucking favours but I got 'em."

A few favours is a fucking understatement. He had to pull in every favour he had owed, and give out a few besides, not to mention endure the stares and occasional outright comments from more than one officer of the law wondering why in hell someone like John McClane actually wanted to attend a goddamn New Year's Eve _ball_ in the first place. He couldn't explain it to them, and he sure as hell can't explain it to the kid now… at least not in any way that wouldn't end with Matt complaining that he's not the girl in this relationship, thank you very much.

He just wants to take Matt somewhere nice for a change. Dress up in their best duds and be respectable. Hell, he wants to show the kid off. Maybe preen a little. Makes a hell of a lot more sense than shivering in the goddamn cold just to watch a ball drop.

"Yeah," Matt says again, squirming a little in his arms. "That's… no, it's great, really, it's just… kind of not really my… thing—"

"Right," John says. He tries not to let his body stiffen as he snatches the tickets back, tucks them into his pocket. "If you don't want to do this, I'll find something else," he says as he turns back to the stove.

Behind him he can hear Matt shuffling his feet, knows the kid has stuck his hands into his pockets, knows that his mouth is opening and he's ready to spew out about a thousand words that John just doesn't want to hear right now. So John looks over his shoulder, smiles and asks, "You want extra garlic?" maybe just a little too loudly, and watches Matt make fish-faces as he pushes all those words back down and swallows them whole.

"Nah," Matt finally says. "I mean I do, sure, but I don't want you and your indigestion to keep me up half the night."

John lifts a brow as he reaches for the garlic powder. "Oh," he says, "I think we can come up with something to do to pass the time."

 

 **  
_~ Three! ~_   
**

"Remind me," Matt grunts out as John thrusts into him, "to put garlic powder in _everything_."

 

 **  
_~ Two! ~_   
**

"So," Matt says into the dark, when his breathing has returned to normal, "I was thinking."

"I thought I smelled something burning," John says.

Matt rolls over onto his side, pokes John gently in the ribs. "Yeah, McClane. That... humour of yours, wow. Laugh a minute over here." When John just captures his hand and threads their fingers together, he props himself up on his other hand. "I was thinking about New Year's Eve," he continues. "And I.. yeah, it's okay. We don't have to do the Times Square thing."

In the dim light leaking into the room from the hallway he can make out just enough to see John's eyebrow raise. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Matt says. "It _is_ gonna be super crowded, and you get that many people together it usually results in _some_ kind of fuckery. And then you'd probably see someone toking up and try to arrest them, and then a riot would start—"

"Don't want that," John agrees.

"Dick Clark would have another stroke, it'd get in the papers, you'd end up getting chewed out by Scalvino again—"

"Again?" John says, and Matt wonders if John really thinks he can't tell the difference between _had a shitty day because the surveillance order didn't come through_ and _had a shitty day because Scalvino's busting balls again_. Wonders if he really doesn't know just how well Matt can read him within moments of him stepping through the door after his shift, can tell what John's mood will be from the timbre of his footsteps and the _chunk_ of the magazine being ejected from the gun.

"Anyway," John continues, "I think Dick Clark's dead."

"Dick Clark is the Anti-Christ, he can't die," Matt counters. He leans down to press a kiss to John's lips. "So we'll do your thing," he says when they part. "It's for charity, right?"

"The Benevolent Association's Widows and Children's Fund," John confirms.

"Right. Yeah. We'll do that." Matt flops back down onto his back, closes his eyes. Tells himself that this is better, that making John happy will make him happy, and that he doesn't want to be foot-sore and freezing on New Year's Eve anyway. "It's for a good cause."

 

 **  
_~ One! ~_   
**

Their suits are back from the dry cleaners, neatly pressed and hanging inside their plastic wrap in the closet at home. Their shoes are polished. The car service has been ordered, so he'll be able to have a couple of drinks tonight and not have to worry about getting home safely. The tickets are in his wallet, the additional donation cheque already written and signed and next to them. Everything is set.

So why, John thinks, does he feel so goddamn twitchy?

Hell, he's got no reason to feel guilty. Matt _agreed_ to go. They'll have a nice five-star meal, listen to some music. Place a couple of bids at the silent auction. It'll be... John leans back in his chair and sighs. For him, it might be… fine. For Matt, it'll be boring as shit.

Despite the promise John made to himself when this thing started happening between them, John knows that the kid puts up with a hell of a lot. John's set in his ways and not easy to live with. He's been used to having the final say on everything – at home and at work – for a shitload of years, and despite silent vows to remember to compromise and to listen he finds himself making the decisions on what food they buy, where they'll go for dinner, what shows up on the tube on a Friday night. And Matt takes it. John honestly doesn't know if it's because he just doesn't care or he doesn't want to argue or… or he just loves him enough to let him win. Whatever the reason, it doesn't give him the right to run roughshod over the kid.

It's not enough to have Matt in his bed, in his life. He wants Matt happy. He doesn't want Matt ever regretting the decision to be there.

John pushes himself out from behind his desk with a grunt and digs into his wallet before striding across the bullpen.

"You just got married, didn't ya, Maloney?"

The rookie looks up from his desk, eyes wide. John doesn't think he's said more than five words to the new kid since he got transferred, but he sure as fuck recognizes that look. Some of the rookies handle it okay, but a good chunk of them are like Maloney – still green, impressed by the stories. Those are the ones that corner him by the water cooler, telling him he's their hero, that the tales of his exploits changed their lives and made them want to be cops, blah blah blah. It's fucking annoying.

Maloney's throat works for a moment, and John steels himself for the gushing deluge, but the kid gets himself under control. "Um," he says. "Yes, sir. In September, sir."

"McClane."

"Sir?"

John pinches his nose, just barely holds back the sigh. "The name's McClane," he says before shoving the tickets into the kid's hands. "Here."

Maloney looks down at the tickets blankly for a moment before raising those big eyes to his face. "I don't understand, sir." He shakes his head. "McClane. Detective McClane, sir."

"Take your wife out, have a good time."

"But—"

John is already walking away, anxious to be out from under that awestruck look. He tosses the day's paperwork into a drawer and locks everything up, then shrugs into his brown leather jacket and tugs out his cell phone.

"Heyyy," Matt answers. "What are you—"

"Meet me at the corner of 42nd and Broadway in an hour," John says.

"What? Why?"

"And bring hot chocolate, kid. We're gonna need it."

 

 **  
_~ Happy New Year! ~_   
**

It's just as cold as John imagined it would be. He can no longer feel either his toes or his earlobes, and the knit cap isn't doing much for the rest of his head, either. He has to piss like a banshee, and the wall of sound from close to a million people all talking at once has long ago passed from general annoyance to shoot himself in the head to make it fucking stop insanity.

But there are benefits. As the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight he can't move more than an inch in either direction, which means that he's pressed tightly to Matt's body from toe to thigh to hip to chest. And the kid is shivering – and okay, John knows that some of it is from the cold that Matt refuses to acknowledge even as his nose turns redder with each passing minute – but some of it is from excitement, too. The kid is thrumming with it, can't stop smiling. And John finds himself smiling inanely back.

When the ball starts dropping, John shouts the countdown as loud as the rest of them. And when he tugs Matt into his arms, tangles frozen fingers in his hair and kisses him to welcome in the new year, he knows that fireworks don't actually go off. But it sure as hell feels like they do.


End file.
